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y^t  our  purpose  lwUiU...t»  5aiI  heyonbikc  ttux^et-. 
»       '^  Ulysses 


TO 
ROSAMOND  CROWDY 


M3 

'T^iiERE  is  an  opportunity  of  knowing  in  brilliant  English 
translations  much  of  the  poetry  of  China  and  Japan,  of 
India  and  Persia;  and  Arabic  poetry  is  accessible;  but  I 
believe  this  book  to  be  the  first  general  English  anthology  of 
Asiatic  verse.  It  is  haphazard,  as  such  books  must  be  until 
some  polyglot  scholar  gives  a  whole  life  to  the  matter. 
Variety  was  the  only  aim  possible  in  a  space  so  small,  and 
therefore  I  have  selected  love  poems  of  different  centuries 
and  of  both  primitive  and  subtle  peoples.  If  readers  care  to 
turn  to  Anthologie  de  L'Amour  Asiatique,  compiled  by 
Adolphe  Thalasso,  the  late  editor  of  the  Revue  Orientale  in 
Constantinople,  they  will  find  a  full  and  clear  study  of  Asia's 
love  poetry  and  see  also  how  much  I  owe  to  this  erudite  and 
stimulating  authority.  M.  Thalasso's  work  first  showed  me 
beauty  and  interest  in  the  songs  of  almost  unknown  litera- 
tures. In  some  instances  I  have  translated  directly  and  only 
from  his  book,  in  others  I  have  gratefully  taken  his  direction 
and  traced  poems  back  to  their  sources.  Versions,  also,  of 
some  of  the  Chinese  poems  given  here  will  be  found  in  the 
incomparable  Livre  de  Jade  of  Mme.  Judith  Gautier.  Ref- 
erence to  the  texts  of  other  poems  is  easily  made  at  various 
libraries,  except  with  regard  to  a  dozen  which  I  have  per- 
sonally collected.  These  last  have  not  before,  I  think,  been 
given  a  European  form. 

E.  P.  M. 

London,  1918. 


4424-15 


CONTENTS. 

Page 

Shade  of  the  Orange  Leaves 9 

The  Dalliance  of  the  Leopards 10 

War  Song 11 

Black  Hair 13 

The  Garden  of  Bamboos 15 

Eyes  that  move  not 16 

Gazal 18 

Doubt 18 

Song 19 

My  Desire 20 

Distich 24 

Song 24 

The  Emperor 25 

Song 26 

Love  Song 27 

Fardiyat 28 

Loving  Things 29 

Being  Together  at  Night 29 

The  Peach  Flower 30 

Leila 31 

Looking  at  the  Moon 32 

Song 33 

A  Love  Rapture 33 

English  Girl 34 

Gazal 35 

7 


Page 

Lover's  Jealousy 36 

Spring  Cold 39 

Climbing  Up  to  You 41 

Grief 41 

Song 42 

Last  Time 42 

Mokcha 43 

Gazal 44 

Vai!  Tchodjouklareum 45 

The  Mirror 47 

Fardiyat 48 

At  the  East  Gate 49 

Submission 50 

In  the  Palace 51 

A  Thing  Remembered 52 

The  Most  Virtuous  Woman 53 

The  Meeting 54 

The  Drunken  Rose 55 

The  Tryst 56 

Zulma 57 

Rubaiyat 58 

Picture 58 

White 59 

Song 59 

The  Red  Lotus 60 

Envoy 62 

Four  Notes 63 


SHADE   OF  THE   ORANGE   LEAVES. 

'T^HE  young  girl  tliat  in  her  chamber  from  da^vii  till  eve  alone 

Broiders  silk  flowers  on  robes,  deliciously  shudders 
At  the  unexpected  sound  of  a  far  flute; 

It  seems  to  her  that  tlie  voice  of  a  young  man  is  kissing  her 
ear. 

And  when  across  the  oiled  paper 

Of  the  high  windows  the  orange  leaves 

Come  and  touch  and  make  their  shadows  run  on  her  knees 

It  seems  to  her  that  a  hand  is  tearing  her  robe  of  silk. 

From  the  Qiinese  of  Tin-Tun-Ling. 


THE  DALLIANCE  OF  THE  LEOPARDS. 

"XTery  afraid 

I  saw  the  dalliance  of  the  leopards. 
In  the  beauty  of  their  coats 
They  sought  each  other  and  embraced. 
Had  I  gone  between  them  then 
And  pulled  them  asunder  by  their  manes, 
I  would  have  run  less  risk 
Than  when  I  passed  in  my  boat 
And  saw  you  standing  on  a  dead  tree 
Ready  to  dive  and  kindle  the  river. 

From  the  Sanskrit  (5th  Century). 


10 


WAR   SONG. 

'T^o  bodies  straight  as  palm  trees, 

To  hips  as  supple  as  reeds, 
We  prefer  the  straight  staffs  of  our  banners 
Where  suppFly  floats  our  oriflamme  of  Sun, 
Our  banners  gilt  like  cimitars 
That  catch  the  sunset. 

To  silk  hair,  red  as  burning  coals, 

To  silk  hair,  black  as  coals  burned  out. 

To  hair  that  is  dawn  or  night  on  girls'  heads, 

We  prefer  the  tufts  floating  in  fight. 

Tufts  of  gold  hair  or  of  black  hair 

Pulled  from  the  tails  of  our  black  horses. 

To  shining  white  breasts  on  virgin  bodies, 

Firm  as  the  thrice  tried  bronze 

And  round  like  marble  cups. 

Whence  subtle  and  swooning  odours  come, 

We  prefer  the  clash  of  our  sabres  triple  tried 

And  the  shining  of  our  round  shields  like  mighty  cups. 

11 


WAR  SONG  9 

To  the  murderous  arrows  of  black  eyes 

Made  blacker  by  the  bow  of  brows 

And  the  kohl  of  love  given  and  love  taken, 

The  dear  darkness  about  eyes  for  love's  sake, 

We  prefer  the  murderous  arrows 

That  stretch  our  bows  in  fight. 

The  arrows  of  black  eyes  are  tipped  with  kisses 
Not  kept  back,  not  only  sped  at  willing  hearts, 
And  the  tips  gash  chance  hearts  often  enough 
And  give  death  where  no  battle  is  waged  .  .  . 
But  the  arrows  of  our  bows 
Sow  death  only  among  the  hardy  foe. 

To  bodies  yielding  under  the  struggle  of  love 

And  rearing  under  the  red  fire  of  kisses. 

We  prefer  our  horses  tricked  with  silver  and  gold. 

Our  horses  that  yield  not  beneath  us 

And  bound  only  at  the  sight  of  the  blood  of  battles. 


Altai. 


12 


BLACK  HAIR. 

T  AST  night  my  kisses  dro^v^led  in  the  softness  of  black  hair, 
■*^    And  my  kisses  like  bees  went  plundering  the  softness 

of  black  hair. 
Last  night  my  hands  were  thrust  in  the  mystery  of  black  hair, 
And  my  kisses  like  bees  went  plundering  the  sweetness  of 

pomegranates 
And  among  the  scents  of  the  harvest  above  my  queen's  neck, 

the  harvest  of  black  hair; 
And  my  teeth  played  with  the  golden  skin  of  her  two  ears. 
Last  night  my  kisses  dro^viied  in  the  softness  of  black  hair. 
And  my  kisses  like  bees  went  plundering  the  softness  of  black 

hair. 

— Your  kisses  went  plundering  the  scents  of  my  harvest,  0 
friend, 

And  tlie  scents  laid  you  drunk  at  my  side.  As  sleep  over- 
came Bahram 

In  the  bed  of  Sarasya,  so  sleep  overcame  you  on  my  bed. 

I  know  one  that  has  sworn  your  hurt  for  stealing  the  roses 
from  my  cheeks, 

Has  sworn  your  hurt  even  to  death,  the  Guardian  of  black 
hair. 

— Last  night  my  kisses  drowned  in  the  softness  of  black  hair. 

And  my  kisses  like  bees  went  plundering  the  softness  of  black 
hair. 

My  hurt,  darling?    The  sky  will  guard  me  if  you  wish  me 

guarded. 
But  now  for  my  defence,  dearest,  roll  me  a  cudgel  of  black 

hair; 

13 


BLACK  HAIR    & 

And  give  me  the  whiteness  of  your  face,  I  am  himgry  for  it 

like  a  little  bird. 
Still,  if  you  wish  me  there,  loosen  me  among  the  wantonness 

of  black  hair. 
Last  night  my  kisses  drowned  in  the  softness  of  black  hair. 
And  my  kisses  like  bees  went  plundering  the  softness  of  black 

hair. 

Sweet  friend,  I  will  part  the  curtain  of  black  hair  and  let  you 

into  the  white  garden  of  my  breast. 
But  I  fear  you  will  despise  me  and  not  look  back  when  you  go 

away. 
I  am  so  beautiful  and  so  white  that  the  lamp-light  faints  to  see 

my  face. 
And  also  God  has  given  me  for  adornment  my  heavy  black 

hair. 
— Last  night  my  kisses  drowned  in  the  softness  of  black  hair. 
And  my  kisses  like  bees  went  plundering  the  softness  of  black 

hair. 

He  has  made  you  beautiful  even  among  his  most  beautiful; 
I  am  your  little  slave.     0  queen,  cast  me  a  little  look. 
I  sent  you  the  message  of  love  at  the  dawn  of  day. 
But  my  heart  is  stung  by  a  snake,  the  snake  of  black  hair. 
Last  night  my  kisses  drowned  in  the  softness  of  black  hair. 
And  my  kisses  like  bees  went  plundering  the  softness  of  black 
hair.  { 

14 


BLACK  HAIR    & 

— Fear  not,  dear  friend,  I  am  the  Charmer, 

My  breath  will  charm  the  snake  upon  your  heart; 

But  who  will  charm  the  snake  on  my  honour,  my  sad  honour? 

If  you  love  me,  let  us  go  from  Pakli.  My  husband  is  hor- 
rible. 

From  this  forth  I  give  you  command  over  black  hair. 

— Last  night  my  kisses  drowned  in  the  softness  of  black  hair. 

And  my  kisses  like  bees  went  plundering  the  softness  of  black 
hair. 

Muhammadji  has  power  over  the  poets  of  Pakli, 

He  takes  tax  from  the  Amirs  of  great  Delhi. 

He  reigns  over  an  empire  and  governs  with  a  sceptre  of  black 

hair. 
Last  night  my  kisses  drowned  in  the  softness  of  black  hair. 
And  my  kisses  like  bees  went  plundering  the  softness  of  black 

hair. 

From  the  Afghan  of  Muhammadji   (19th  Century). 

THE   GARDEN   OF   BAMBOOS. 

T  LIVE  all  alone,  and  I  am  a  young  girl. 

I  write  long  letters  and  do  not  know  anyone  to  send  them 
to. 
Most  tender  things  speak  in  my  heart 
And  I  can  only  say  them  to  the  bamboos  in  the  garden. 
Waiting  on  my  feet,  lifting  the  mat  a  little  behind  the  door. 
All  day  I  watch  the  shadows  of  the  people  that  pass. 

A  street  soHg  of  Annam. 
15 


T 


EYES  THAT  MOVE  NOT. 

HE  ashes  are  cold  in  the  gold  of  the 
perfume-brazier.     It  is  shaped  like  a 
fantastic  lion. 


Feverishly  I  fidget  under  the  red  wave 

of  my  bed-clothes,  and  suddenly  I  throw 
them  from  me  to  get  up. 

But  I  have  not  the  courage  to  undertake 

my  hair-dressing,  the  comb  is  too  heavy 
for  my  dejection. 

I  leave  the  dust  to  tarnish  the  precious 
thing3  on  my  toilet-table. 

Already  the  sun  has  reached  the  height  of 
the  hasp  that  holds  up  the  curtain. 

This  grief  that  I  have  hidden  from  all, 
this  grief  at  a  departure  threatening, 
becomes  more  bitter  still. 

Things  to  say  come  as  far  as  my  lips, 

and  I  press  them  back  into  my  heart. 
16 


EYES  THAT   MOVE  NOT    & 

It  is  indeed  a  new  thing  for  me  to  feel 

a  torment;  this  is  not  an  iUness  caused 
by  getting  drunk,  nor  by  the  melancholy 
of  approaching  Autumn. 

•  ••••••• 

Ah,  it  is  finished,  it  is  finished. 
He  goes  away  to-day. 

If  I  sang  ten  thousand  times  the 

"  Stay  here  by  me  "  song,  yet  he 
would  not  stay. 

Now  my  mind  has  gone  on  a  journey  to  the 

South;  to  his  country,  which  is  very  far  away. 

Look,  see,  the  mist  encumbers  my  pavilion; 

before  my  eyes  is  but  the  water  running  round 

about. 

It  is  my  grief's  sole  witness,  and  may  be 

astonished  to  reflect  so  long  and  long  the 

stupefaction  of  my  eyes  that  move  not. 

Ah,  heavier  still,  hereafter,  shall  my  regard 

weigh  down  on  you,  pale  mirror;  for  even  as 
I  speak  it  is  accomplished,  this  harm, 
this  sadness  of  eyes  that  move  not. 

From  the  Chinese  of  Ly-Y-Hane. 
17 


GAZAL. 

Tf  the  proud  girl  I  love  would  cast  a  glance  behind  her, 

As  down  the  road  she  swings  in  her  bright  palanquin, 
She  would  see  her  lover  on  foot,  with  empty  hands. 

Like  the  white  buds  of  tuberose  in  a  dark  night 
Through  the  lines  of  betel  shine  out  her  white  teeth. 

When  she  puts  henna  on  her  hands  and  dives  in  the  soft  river 
One  would  think  one  saw  fire  twisting  and  running  in  the  water. 

From  the  Hindustani  of  Dilsoz   (18th  Century). 


DOUBT. 

T^7iLL  he  be  true  to  me? 
That  I  do  not  know. 
But  since  the  dawn 

I  have  had  as  much  disorder  in  my  thoughts 
As  in  my  black  hair. 

From  the  Japanese  of  Hori-Kawa. 


18 


SONG. 

T     IKE  the  fine  and  silky  hair  of  our  goats 
■^^    Which  climb  up  very  high  on  the  peaks 
Of  inaccessible  Kara-Koroum, 
So  fine  and  silky  is  the  hair  of  my  girl. 

Her  eyes  are  soft  as  the  eyes  of  the  goats 
That  call  their  males  on  the  mountain, 
Her  eyes  are  soft  as  the  eyes  of  the  goats 
That  hold  the  heavy  teat  to  their  young. 

Her  eyes  have  the  colour  of  topaz 

With  which  she  decks  her  head  and  neck 

And  this  topaz  has  the  soft  colour 

Of  the  soft  eyes,  very  soft  eyes  of  our  goats. 

Her  body  apt  for  work  is  slight  and  supple. 

As  slight  and  supple  as  the  bounds 

Which  our  goats  make,  when  they  leap 

On  the  curved  flanks  of  the  summit  of  Dapsang. 

Her  cheeks  are  ever  fresh  to  my  lips. 

Fresh  like  the  milk  I  draw  daily 

When  the  goats  come  back  to  the  stable 

From  the  swelling  udders  that  sweep  the  ground. 

Love  song  of  Thibet. 
19 


MY  DESIRE. 

TTfTHEN  in  your  floating  robe, 

Woven  with  red  silk  and  golden, 
In  your  floating  robe 
Held  round  your  hips 
By  a  broidered  belt. 
Showing  all  curves 
Of  your  reckless  body, 
You  pass  me  by. 
Eyeing  me  boldly 
With  provocative  eyes 
And  sending  me  from  your  lips 
Teasing  smiles. 
Then  I  feel  from  your  eyes, 
Live  like  two  diamonds 
From  the  mines  of  Sing  Fos, 
And  from  the  smile  of  your  lips 
That  smell  so  sweet  of  santal, 
And  from  your  breatliing  body 
That  your  long  robe  shows, 
I  feel  come  to  me 
A  wild  and  mad  desire 
Long,  long  to  kiss  your  mouth 
And  your  teeth  painted  with  betel, 
20 


MY  DESIRE    A 


Long,  long  to  possess 

Your  loving  and  breathing  body, 

Sho^v^  and  hidden 

By  your  long  floating  robe, 

Woven  with  red  silk  and  golden. 

And  this  desire  draws  me  to  thee 

As  the  oaks  of  Mandalay 

Draw  the  lightning. 

My  desire  is  a  stallion 

That  must  have  his  mare, 

My  desire  is  a  jaguar 

Calling  his  female, 

My  desire  is  an  elephant 

Seeking  his  mate. 

Your  floating  robe  and  your  body, 

Your  eyes  and  your  smile 

Draw  my  desire  to  thee 

As  if  your  hands 

Had  passed  chains 

Through  the  rings  of  my  ears 

And  dragged  me 

Ever  behind  your  feet, 

As  life  draws  breath 

Desire  draws  me  to  thee. 


21 


MY  DESIRE 


When  in  the  month  of  flowers 

Snow  piled  on  Youmadong 

Falls  from  the  momitain 

In  a  devouring  torrent, 

Sweeps  in  his  passage 

Trees,  houses,  beasts  and  men, 

And  nothing  is  able 

To  stay  his  great  course 

That  grows  greater  and  greater 

And  drowns  with  his  waters 

The  waters  of  Kin  Douen; 

So  violent  is  my  desire 

For  thy  desire; 

It  overturns  all  things 

In  coming  to  thee, 

It  smothers  the  precepts 

That  Godama  gave  us, 

And  drowns  all  the  laws 

Of  the  Lord  of  the  Elephant. 

What  does  your  husband  matter? 
What  does  your  family  matter? 
I  desire  you,  I  long  for  you 
With  a  wild  and  a  mad  love. 


22 


MY  DESIRE    * 


My  desire  is  a  torrent 
Falling  from  the  mountain, 
Nothing  can  stay  it. 
It  breaks  and  upheaves. 
I  desire  you,  I  long  for  you 
With  a  wild  and  a  mad  love. 
I  want  to  kiss  your  eyes, 
I  want  to  kiss  your  mouth, 
I  want  to  have 
Your  desire  and  your  body; 
No  torrent  is  so  strong 
As  my  desire  for  your  body. 

The  desire  drawing  me  to  thee 

Is  natural; 

Like  the  torrent  that  falls 

From  the  heights  of  Youmadong, 

Like  the  lightning  which  falls 

On  the  oaks  of  Mandalay, 

Of  nature  natural 

Is  the  desire  that  draws  me  to  thee. 

From  the  Burmese  of  Asmapour  (19th  Century'). 


23 


A 


DISTICH. 

H,  would  that  I  could  hide  within  my  songs 
And,  every  time  you  sang  them,  kiss  your  lips. 

From  the  Persian  of  Oumara  (10th  Century). 


SONG. 

OiNCE  you  love  me  and  I  love  you 

The  rest  matters  not; 
I  wiU  cut  grass  in  the  fields 
And  you  will  sell  it  for  beasts. 

Since  you  love  me  and  I  love  you 
The  rest  matters  not; 
I  will  sow  maize  in  the  fields 
And  you  will  sell  it  for  people. 

Kafiristan. 


24 


THE  EMPEROR. 

/^N  a  tlirone  of  new  gold  the  Son  of  tlie  Sky 

is  sitting  among  his  Mandarins.     He  shines 
with  jewels  and  is  like  a  sun  surrounded  by  stars. 

The  Mandarins  speak  gravely  of  grave  things; 
but  the  Emperor's  thought  has  flown  out  by 
the  open  window. 

In  her  pavilion  of  porcelain  the  Empress  is 

sitting  among  her  women.     She  is  like  a  bright 
flower  among  leaves. 

She  dreams  that  her  beloved  stays  too  long 
at  council,  and  wearily  she  moves  her  fan. 

A  breathing  of  perfumed  air  kisses  the  face 
of  the  Emperor. 

"  My  beloved  moves  her  fan,  and  sends  me  a 
perfume  from  her  lips." 

Towards  the  pavilion  of  porcelain  walks  the 

Emperor,  shining  with  his  jewels;  and  leaves  his 
grave  Mandarins  to  look  at  each  other  in  silence. 

From  the  Chinese  of  Thou-Fou. 
25 


SONG. 

"VT^OU  would  climb  after  nectarines 

In  your  little  green  jacket  and  puffy  white  drawers; 
So  that  you  fell  and  I  caught  you. 
You  made  as  if  to  break  away, 
And  then  settled  wriggling  in  my  arms, 
All  your  lightness  and  softness  were  pressed  against  me, 
And  your  face  looked  up  from  my  breast 
Puckered  with  amusement. 
It  would  be  something  of  the  sort 
If  our  clear  blue  night  full  of  white  stars 
Turned  to  a  night  of  coloured  stars — 
Red  and  purple  and  green  to  the  zenith, 
And  orange  and  light  violet  and  lemon, 
And  bright  rose  and  crimson  all  about  the  sky. 

From  the  Chinese  (19th  Century). 


26 


LOVE  SONG. 

I. 

'T^HE  mountains  of  Bech-Parma  are  great  enough, 
But  my  love  is  greater. 

The  glaciers  that  marble  their  tops  are  white, 
But  your  breasts  are  whiter. 

The  antelope  stricken  by  my  bullet 
Weeps  a  red  blood  from  its  wound 

Which  dyes  with  large  red  flowers 

The  field  of  the  blowing  jasmine  flowers  of  snow. 

Your  arms  are  whiter  than  the  jasmine  flowers  of  snow; 
And  your  kiss  is  redder  than  the  blood  of  the  antelope. 

The  mountains  of  Bech-Parma  are  great  enough. 
But  my  love  is  greater. 


n. 

The  wind  screaming  in  the  forest  when  the  wind  of  Russia 

blows 
Is  milder  than  the  desire  that  draws  me  to  thee. 

27 


LOVE  SONG  ^ 

Your  body  smells  richer  than  the  resin 
That  weeps  in  the  sun  from  slender  pines. 

And  your  mouth  has  more  of  odours 
Than  mint  flowers  throw  on  the  air. 

When  you  are  by  my  side,  I  feel  in  my  body 
A  warmth  more  suave  than  the  softest  sun-rays. 

And  when  you  go  away  from  me,  my  sadness 

Is  blacker  than  the  lowering  night  great  with  storm. 

The  wind  screaming  in  the  forest  when  the  wind  of  Russia 

blows 
Is  milder  than  the  desire  that  draws  me  to  thee. 

Daghestan. 


FARDIYAT. 

T'd  wish  them  to  put  for  a  talisman  on  my  tomb  a  pink  stone; 
"*•    To  remind  folk  of  the  stone  heart  and  the  pink  fairness  of 
my  murderess. 

From  the  Hindustani  of  Schah  Selim   (18th  Century'). 


28 


LOVING  THINGS. 

T  AM  only  a  man,  and  yet  sometimes 

The  green  skin  of  unripened  limes 
Or  the  rose  and  gold  of  a  naked  heel 
Take  hold  of  my  heart  and  make  it  feel. 

And  then  I'm  a  god,  that  tints  and  blends, 
Loves  and  laughs  and  comprehends; 
Hunger  and  honour  are  my  creed, 
And  tlie  splendour  of  a  windy  speed. 

And  then  I'm  a  wolf,  that  glares  and  runs 
After  the  soft  four-footed  ones; 
Moonlight  is  shattered  on  my  track 
Ere  human  voices  call  me  back. 

Modern  Persian  (author  unknown), 


BEING  TOGETHER  AT  NIGHT. 

T)  Y  black  water  and  dark  blue  water, 

■^^  Making  tlie  wide  tree  balance  its  branches 

Between  us  and  the  moon, 

We  stood  close.     As  close  among  the  leaves 

Small  green  diamonds  of  rain 

And  the  far  stars. 

From  the  Chinese  (19th  Century). 
29 


THE  PEACH  FLOWER. 

T  HAVE  plucked  from  the  branch  of  the  peach  a  flower  quite 
little,  a  flower  quite  rose;  1 

And  offered  it  to  the  loved  girl  whose  lips  are  smaller  and 
more  rose  than  the  little  flower. 

I  have  taken  a  swallow  with  black  wings  from  its  nest  and 

off"ered  it  to  the  loved  girl, 
Whose  lips  are  little  and  rose  and  whose  brows  are  like  the 

black  wings  of  the  swallow. 

Next  day  the  little  rose  flower  was  faded 

And  the  swallow,  following  the  soul  of  the  flower,  had  taken 

flight 
By  the  window  open  on  to  the  Blue  Mountain. 

But  on  the  lips  of  the  loved  girl  flowers  blow  always  small 

and  rose. 
And  the  black  brows  over  her  eyes  have  no  air  of  wishing  to 

beat  their  wings. 

From  the  Cliinese  of  Tse-Tie. 


30 


LEILA. 

Qh!  Leila! 

In  your  mouth  are  three  things 
A  range  of  Bahrain  pearls, 
A  goblet  of  Shiraz  wine. 
The  musk  of  Thibet ; 
The  musk  of  Thibet  is  your  breath, 
The  Shiraz  wine  the  water  of  your  mouth, 
The  Bahrain  pearls  your  teeth. 
Oh!  Leila! 

Oh!  Leila! 

In  your  eyes  are  three  things. 

Black  diamonds  of  Hindustan, 

Figured  silks  of  Lahore, 

Flames  of  Fusi-Yama; 

The  mountain  flames  are  their  brightness, 

The  figured  silks  of  Lahore  their  dusk. 

The  black  diamonds  of  Hindustan  their  colour. 

Oh!  Leila! 


31 


LEILA   ^ 


Oh!  Leila! 

In  your  heart  are  three  things, 
All  the  yellow  cobras  of  Burma, 
All  the  deadly  fungi  of  Bengal, 
All  Nepal's  poison  flowers; 
The  poison  flowers  are  your  vows, 
The  deadly  fungi  your  kisses, 
The  yellow  cobras  your  deceits. 
Oh!  Leila! 


Song  of  Nepal. 


LOOKING  AT  THE  MOON. 

"XTery  far  from  your  eyes 

My  loving  eyes  regard 
The  sky  of  stars. 
Ah,  that  the  moon  might  be 
Changed  to  a  mirror. 


From  the  Japanese  of  a  Courtezan 
of  Nagasaki. 


32 


SONG. 

"PJew  on  the  bamboos, 

Cooler  than  dew  on  the  bamboos 
Is  putting  my  cheek  against  your  breasts. 

The  pit  of  green  and  black  snakes, 

I  would  rather  be  in  the  pit  of  green  and  black  snakes 

Than  be  in  love  with  you. 

From  the  Sanskrit  (5th  Century). 


A  LOVE  RAPTURE. 

"D  OUND  the  Palace  of  Waters  gently  the  wind 
moves  the  flowers  of  the  water-lilies. 

On  the  highest  terrace  of  Kou-Sou  one  sees 
the  King  of  Lou  lazily  lying. 

And  before  him  Sy-Che,  after  whom  beauty  was 
named,  dances  with  lovely  grace  of  delicate 
weak  gestures. 

Then  she  laughs  that  she  is  so  voluptuously 

weary,  and  languidly  leans  to  the  East  on 
the  white  jade  of  the  royal  bed. 

From  the  Chinese  of  Li-Tai-Pe. 
33 


ENGLISH  GIRL. 

T  THAT  lived  ever  about  you 

Never  touched  you,  Lilian ; 
You  came  from  far  away 
And  devils  with  twitching  faces 
Had  all  their  will  of  you 
For  gold. 

But  I  saw  your  little  feet  in  your  bedroom, 
Your  little  heathen  shoes  I  kept  so  bright. 
For  they  regarded  not  your  feet,  Lilian, 
But  I  regarded. 

Your  little  heathen  stockings  were  mine  to  carry 
And  to  set  out  and  to  wash. 
They  regarded  not  your  feet, 
But  I  that  lived  ever  about  you 
Never  touched  you,  Lilian. 
Their  faces  twitch  more  this  frosty  morning; 
They  have  put  you  in  a  heathen  box 
And  hidden  your  feet  and  carried  you  out  in  the  frosty 

morning. 
They  have  passed  with  you  over  the  foggy  brook 
And  look  like  big  blue  men  in  the  mist  on  the  other  side. 

34 


ENGLISH  GIRL  * 

Now  only  the  mist  and  the  water  remain. 

They  never  regarded  your  feet, 

But  I  regarded,  Lilian. 

Their  faces  ever  twitched, 

But  for  the  seven  years  since  I  saw  you 

My  face  did  not  change. 

They  never  regarded  your  warm  feet, 

But  I  regarded. 


From  the  Chinese  (19th  Century). 


GAZAL. 

Oeeing  me  come  the  heavenly  girl  fled  very  fast. 

And  ran  surpassing  fast,  her  tongue  between  her  teeth. 
I  followed,  and  the  heavenly  girl  at  the  noise  of  my  following 
Pulled  back  the  leaf  of  the  door  and  hid  behind. 
I  followed,  and  for  her  savagery  fast,  fast  I  scolded  her; 
Till  all  ashamed  and  drawing  back  she  could  not  answer  me. 
Why  starts  the  morning  cock  his  chant  so  fast,  so  fast? 
An  evil  cock,  an  evil  chant  to  shatter  my  delight  .  .  . 
And  this  song  is  only  as  threads  of  smoke  to  the  heavenly  girl, 
That  vanish  surpassing  fast  upon  the  winds  of  Spring. 

From  the  Hindustani  of  Inscha   (18th  Century). 
35 


LOVER'S  JEALOUSY. 

A  LTHOUGH  you  are  as  beautiful  as  Kashmir  at  da^vn 

I  am  not  jealous,  0  my  wanton  bird, 
Of  the  lover  that  you  have  chosen,  who  takes  my  place 
To-night  upon  your  bed.    You  can  ask  me  to  your  feasting 

to-night. 
I  carry  the  scent  of  your  body  about  with  me. 

Fear  not.     I  will  bring  things  to  eat  and  things  to  drink; 
Since  love  makes  the  belly  hungry  and  the  throat  dry. 
And  I'll  sing  my  finest  ballads,  for  which  you  used  to  pay 
Your  mendicant  of  love  with  diamonds  of  tears,  pearls  of 

laughter  and  rubies  of  kisses. 
I  carry  the  scent  of  your  body  about  with  me. 

I  will  serve  up  to  you  all  panting,  all  hot,  and  all  crisp. 
My  heart  which  your  spurns  have  made  into  roast  lamb; 
And  for  your  thirst  I  will  give  you  in  a  cup 
In  place  of  milk  all  the  blood  of  my  veins  that  you  wish  empty 

of  my  love. 
I  carry  the  scent  of  your  body  about  with  me. 

36 


LOVER'S  JEALOUSY  * 

I'll  sing  to  your  handsome  the  words  you  love,  words  that 

distilled  in  your  ears 
Make  you  all  ripe  to  offer  the  cup  of  kisses, 
Words  I  made  for  you  yesterday,  the  beggar  at  your  door, 
Which  to-day  you  want  to  hear  cried  by  other  lips. 
I  carry  the  scent  of  your  body  about  with  me. 

I  will  sing  him  a  ghazel  of  the  learned  way 

To  loose  your  hair  and  unravel  your  heavy  black  tresses, 

Heavy  with  perfumes  and  little  coins,  with  flowers  and 

pearl-encrusted  combs. 
Heavy  above  all  with  the  odour  of  your  body. 
I  carry  the  scent  of  your  body  about  w^ith  me. 

Oh,  this  scent  floating  from  your  neck,  your  breasts,  your 

arms; 
That  circles  about  your  thighs  and  your  little  belly ; 
This  scent  that  is  fed  for  ever  and  for  ever 
From  two  shady  flasks  under  your  bright  arms. 
I  carry  the  scent  of  your  body  about  with  me. 

i  Oh,  this  hot  scent  that  curdles  my  desire. 
Odour  of  honey  and  santal,  of  milk  and  rose  water. 
And  over  all  your  little  hot  skin  under  great  love 
Breathing  of  amber. 

I  carry  the  scent  of  your  body  about  with  me. 

37 


LOVER'S  JEALOUSY  & 

I  will  sing  him  the  very  slow  way 

Of  plucking  date-sweet  kisses  from  your  lips. 

Of  plucking  from  your  breasts  all  blowing  flowers,  carnations 

and  roses, 
And  from  between  your  breasts  all  fruits,  oranges,  peaches 

and  strawberries. 
I  carry  the  scent  of  your  body  about  with  me. 

And  to  place  his  head  on  your  shoulder,  0  little  bird, 

Where,  big  and  proud,  your  grain  of  beauty  lies. 

Like  a  black  carnation  in  a  desert  of  snow, 

Like  a  black  star  in  daylight. 

I  carry  the  scent  of  your  body  about  with  me. 

My  songs  will  teach  him  the  things  that  make  you  mad, 
What  twistings  you  love,  my  serpent, 

They'll  murmur  him  what  languors  break  your  feline  limbs, 
And  above  all  how  to  be  loved  by  thee.  jl 

I  carry  the  scent  of  your  body  about  with  me. 

I  want  to  light  in  his  heart  the  flame  that  bums  in  me,  J 

To  see  him  suffer  to-morrow,  when  you  leave  him  for  me,        9 
All  the  torments  that  I  have  to-day.  l 

You  can  ask  Rahchan  to  your  feasting  to-night, 
Rahchan  will  bring  things  to  eat  and  things  to  drink  .  .  . 
I  carry  the  scent  of  your  body  about  with  me. 

From  the  Afghan  of  Mirza  Rahchan  Kayil. 
38 


SPRING  COLD. 

T.\  tlie  melancholy  enclosure 

The  wind  leans,  and  drags  at  the  threads  of  fine  rain. 

It  is  a  good  thing  the  double  doors  are  shut. 

The  grace  of  the  willows,  the  frailness  of  the 

flowers,  these  bow  down  before  the  capricious 
weather  that  rains  towards  the  time  of  "Cold  Feasts. 

But  whatever  the  weather,  it  is  always  difficult 
to  find  the  balanced  harmony  of  verse. 

In  the  meanwhile:  this  much  poetry  is  finished. 

\^Tiat  sweet  thing  may  sustain,  what  sweet  thing 

may  console  him  who  wakes  from  drunkenness?   .  .  . 
the  drunkenness  of  poetry,  which  is  other  tlian 
the  dnmkenness  of  wine?   .  .  . 

The  wild  swans  have  just  passed. 

Ah,  I  have  a  thousand  sad  things  which  I  would 
confide  to  these  rapid  riders. 


39 


SPRING  COLD  & 

In  these  days  the  Spring  cold  can  be  felt 
in  the  upper  storey. 

On  four  sides  the  blinds  are  down  in  front 
of  the  windows. 

I  am  too  dissatisfied  to  go  and  lean  on 
the  jade  balustrade. 

The  coverlet  is  cold.    All  the  perfume  is  burned  away. 

I  wake  from  my  last  dream. 

Why  are  not  people  with  great  sorrows 
forbidden  to  dream? 

The  colourless  dew  is  falling  into  tlie  water. 

The  trees  are  getting  green  again. 

Quite  a  lot  of  people  will  rejoice  to  see 
the  Spring  come  back. 

The  sun  is  coming  out,  the  mist  is  drifting  away. 

To-day  I  suppose  I  will  have  to  look  at  some  more 
fine  weather. 

From  the  Chinese  of  Ly-Y-Hane. 
40 


CLIMBING  UP  TO  YOU. 

T  SANG  of  a  glass  of  crystal  shadows  lifted  to  mine 

With  shadows  of  rose  lips  upon  the  rim; 
I  sang  of  love  kissed  asleep  by  other  girls 
That  after  his  rest  would  have  as  sweet  a  waking; 
I  sang  of  my  life  smashed  like  a  hawk's  egg 
Against  the  granite  stairs. 
Now  that  I  can  climb 
Pardon  me  two  things — 

That  I  gave  not,  round  the  beauty  of  your  feet, 
Bright  coloured  songs  to  moan  for  ever  more. 
That  now,  climbing,  once  or  twice 
Being  weary  I  shade  my  mouth  and  sing 
Of  my  heart's  blood  sweetened  to  a  red  grape 
For  you  to  bite  and  swallow  and  have  done. 

From  the  Arabic  of  John  Duncan. 


GRIEF. 

Tf  grief  like  fire  should  give  out  smoke 
Ever  it  would  be  night  on  earth. 

From  the  Persian  of  Schahid   (10th  Century V 
41 


SONG. 

Tf  you  love  God,  take  your  mirror  between  your  hands  and 
look 

How  beautiful  are  your  breasts  with  their  two  russet  berries. 

At  sight  of  them,  stricken,  drunken,  I  cannot  make  a  dis- 
tinction 

Between  them  and  white  roses  beaten  in  white  snow. 

How  beautiful  are  your  breasts  with  their  two  russet  berries. 

No  soul  could  be  strong  against  your  so  bright  eyes. 

My  desire  hungers,  for  the  kisses  of  one  night  did  not  fill  it. 

For  love  of  God,  take  your  mirror  between  your  hands  and 

judge 
If  a  man  could  tire  in  looking  on  your  face. 
My  desire  hungers,  for  the  kisses  of  one  night  did  not  fill  it; 
How  beautiful  are  your  breasts  with  their  two  russet  berries. 

From  the  Turkish  of  Mahmoud  Djellaladine  Pacha 
(19th  Century). 


LAST  TIME. 

/^NE  more  time 

Before  I  quit  the  world 
I  want  to  see  you. 
To  carry  with  me  down  there 
Your  face  of  love,  0  my  love. 

From  the  Japanese  of  Idzumi-Siki-Bu 
(10th  Century). 

42 


MOKCHA. 

(Supreme  Happiness.) 

T  IKE  the  bright  drop 

\^'liich,  from  the  perfumed  womanhood 
Of  loving  night, 
Night  amorous  ever, 
Tireless  in  her  couplings 
With  the  body  of  the  world, 
Falls  in  the  virgin  breast 
Of  a  rose,  and  straightway 
Ravishes  her  and  shows 
In  its  tiny  globe 
All  the  work  of  Brahma, 
All  the  sky  and  all  the  earth; 

So  the  drop  of  the  dew 
Of  thy  love,  which  trembles 
On  the  petals  of  my  heart, 
Reflects  in  my  love 
The  sky  of  the  soul, 
So  sought  Nirvana; 

43 


MOKCHA    5 


My  love  is  Mokcha 
Making  me,  from  on  earth, 
Taste  the  high  savour 
Of  immaterial  joy. 
Through  thy  love  I  have  felt 
That  my  essence  is  god-like 
And  that  I  am  part 
Of  the  world's  Creator. 


From  the  Burmese  of  Megdan  (19th  Century). 


GAZAL. 


TT^HEN  you  have  thrown  torture  and  desire,  0  cruel  chiKl. 

Into  your  lover's  heart  with  lissom  coquetries. 
You  sit  down,  calm  and  unmoved  and  never  noticing, 
And  put  desirous  order  into  the  loosened  tangles  of  your  hair. 

And  I  watching  you  think  of  a  placid  pilgrim 
That  has  come  to  camp  and  sits  taking  his  ease. 
With  never  a  thought  for  his  fellows  on  the  road. 
And  I  watching  you  think  of  the  unconscious  earth 
Carelessly  drinking  the  tears  from  wounded  hearts. 

From  the  Hindustani  of  Isch  (18th  Century). 
44 


VAI!    TCHODJOUKLAREUM! 

A  h!  my  children!  do  you  know  Djemileh, 

The  turquoise,  the  carnation,  the  most  beautiful  girl 
in  Bagdad? 
Ah!  my  children! 

Ah!  my  children!  her  face  has  aspects  of  the  moon. 
And  in  each  of  her  eyes  there  is  a  sun. 
Ah!  my  children! 

Ah!  my  children!  sometimes  she  leaves  her  vest  unfastened, 
Forgetting — who  knows? — that  it  hides  her  breasts. 
Ah!  my  children! 

Ah!  my  children!  she  has  round  rosy  paps 
Standing  straight  out  like  peaches  not  yet  ripe. 
Ah!  my  children! 

Ah!  my  children!  look  at  the  curve  of  her  back; 
She  might  crack  nuts  below  her  waist  there. 
Ah!  my  children! 

Ah!  my  children!  what  shall  be  said  of  her  thighs, 
\^liat  so  good  to  dream  of  as  her  thighs? 
Ah!  my  children! 

Ah!  my  children!  Djemileh  has  just  passed 
Appetising  and  gilt  like  a  cake  for  Ramazan. 
Ah!  my  children! 

45 


VAIl    TCHODJOUKLAREUMI  5 

Ah!  my  children!  she  comes  down  from  the  mountains 
With  her  arms  full  of  flowers,  those  little  flowers  that  never 

die. 
Ah!  my  children! 

Ah!  my  children!  the  wind  makes  cling  to  her  skin 
Her  rose  robe,  and  makes  her  look  quite  naked. 
Ah!  my  children! 

Ah!  my  children!  Djemileh  comes  to  us  to  sell 

The  little  flowers  that  never  die,  plucked  in  the  mountain. 

Ah!  my  children! 

Ah!  my  children!  when  she  sells  her  flowers 

The  bright  eyes  of  the  lads  bathe  her  and  devour  her. 

Ah!  my  children! 

Ah!  my  children!  eyes  that  pass  through  her  robe 
And  do  not  count  the  money  she  gives  back. 
Ah!  my  children! 

Ah!  my  children!  feeling  hands  that  tickle  her 

And  she  laughs  with  all  her  teeth,  pulling  back  her  veil. 

Ah!  my  children! 

Ah!  my  children!  Djemileh  has  sold  the  flowers  from  the 

mountain; 

And  added  to  her  dowry  for  marrying  the  hill  boy  she  loves. 

Ah!  my  children! 

Kurdistan. 
46 


THE  MIRROR. 

T  HAVE  saddled  your  raven  horse  with  nervous  limbs, 

I  have  polished  your  sword,  your  rifle,  and  your  lance. 
Go,  soldier,  since  you  must;  go,  my  eyes'  joy: 
But  in  your  fights  do  not  forget  I  love  you. 

As  in  the  tiny  mirror 

Which  you  brought  me  from  Kiachta  Fair, 

Promise  that  my  face 

Will  be  mirrored  in  your  thought. 

Before  you  go,  make  this  promise — 
To  watch  every  evening  at  the  third  hour 
The  moon  flashing  in  the  sky 
Like  a  great  mirror  of  silver. 

Before  you  go,  I  make  this  promise  too — 
To  watch  every  evening  at  the  third  hour 
The  moon  flashing  in  the  sky 
Like  a  great  mirror  of  silver. 

47 


THE   MIRROR  & 

Thus  every  night,  I'll  seem  to  see  your  eyes, 
Thus  every  night,  you'll  seem  to  see  my  eyes. 
As  in  a  silver  mirror 
In  the  moon,  flashing  in  the  sky. 

Who  knows  but  that  perhaps  the  moon, 

Moved  to  see  our  eyes  hunting  each  other  every  night. 

May  consent  really  to  change 

Into  a  great  mirror  of  silver. 

Then  I  could  watch  you  every  night 
Fighting  on  your  raven  horse; 
And  you  could  tell  yourself  every  night 
That  I  was  keeping  my  promise. 

Street  Song  of  Eastern  Mongolia, 


FARDIYAT. 

npHE  heartless  girl,  that  was  the  cause  of  Saquib's  death,  saw 

his  bier  passing 
And  dared  to  ask  of  its  sorrowful  convoy  the  name  of  the  man 

they  were  carrying  to  earth. 

From  the  Hindustani  of  Saquib   (18th  Century). 
48 


AT  THE  EAST  GATE. 

A  T  the  East  Gate  of  the  City  are  young  women, 
Gracious  and  light  as  clouds  in  Spring  time; 

But  it  does  not  move  me  that  they  have  the  lightness  of 
clouds — 

Under  her  thick  veil  and  the  whiteness  of  her  robe,  my  love 
gives  me  all  joy. 

At  the  West  Gate  of  the  City  are  young  women. 
Sparkling  and  beautiful  like  the  flowers  of  Spring  time; 
But  it  does  not  move  me  that  they  have  the  sparkling  beauty 

of  flowers — 
jUnder  her  thick  veil  and  the  whiteness  of  her  robe,  my  love 

gives  me  all  joy. 

From  the  Chinese  Slii  King  (1776  B.C.) 


49 


SUBMISSION. 

T^Then  you  have  bathed  in  the  river 
'  ^  On  the  moon's  third  day, 
You  make  yourself,  ah,  so  the  more  to  be  desired 
By  slipping  on  a  robe  the  colour  of  your  body. 
Tell  me,  child,  are  three  baskets  of  saffron  enough 
To  colour  your  breasts  and  your  arms  and  your  face? 

No  other  girl  knows,  like  you,  how  to  entice  me, 

Walking  alone  in  the  shadows  of  the  palm  trees. 

None  has  your  tickling  gestures,  your  enflaming  eyes — 

So  young,  so  smooth,  and  so  flower  fresh, 

You  must  have  more  men  silly  about  you 

Than  there  are  corners  in  your  bedroom  to  hide  them. 

In  the  morning  when  I  come  to  see  you  under  the  verandah 

Just  for  the  pleasure  of  talking  to  you ; 

Or  in  the  evening  when  I  curry  favour  with  the  poulterer 

Just  for  the  pleasure  of  feeling  myself  near  you; 

Or  at  night  when  my  hand  seeks  to  clasp  you 

Through  the  hole  pierced  in  the  planking  by  your  bed ; 

Your  mother  can  say  all  she  likes, 

Reproaches,  insults,  swear-words.     I  accept  all  in  advance. 

But  I  conjure  you  do  not  refuse  me 

A  quite  small  comer  of  your  bedroom  in  which  to  hide. 

From  the  Siamese. 
50 


IN  THE  PALACE. 

TXThat  rigorous  calm!     What  almost  holy  silence! 
'  All  the  doors  are  shut,  and  the  beds  of  flowers 
are  giving  out  scent;  discreetly,  of  course.  .  .  . 

Two  women  that  lean  against  each  other,  stand  to 
the  balustrade  of  red  marble  on  the  edge  of  tlie 
terrace. 

One  of  them  wishes  to  speak,  to  confide  to  her 

friend  the  secret  sorrow  that  is  agonizing  her  heart. 

She  throws  an  anxious  glance  at  the  motionless  leaves, 
and  because  of  a  paroquet  with  iridescent  wings 
that  perches  on  a  branch,  she  sighs  and  is  silent. 

From  the  Chinese  of  Thou-Sin-Yu. 


51 


A  THING  REMEMBERED. 

T'll  not  forget  the  warm  blue  night  when  my  bold  girl, 

Whose  kissing  lips  smell  sweet  of  honey  and  of  rose  water, 

Came  softly  to  my  room,  and  my  room  glowed 

As  if  the  moon  at  her  bright  full  had  entered  to  me. 

1 
"  Press  me  in  your  arms,"  she  said.    "  All  that  your  love  de- 
mands 
Ask  and  obtain.    My  old  watching  woman  is  far  away." 

I  pressed  her  in  my  arms,  and  said:  "  Your  robe  is  a  curtain. 
Wherefore  a  curtain  between  me  and  thee,  violet  joy  of  my 
heart?  " 

And  so  saying,  I  began  to  undo  some  parts  of  her  robe. 
She  looked  smiling  at  me  and  I,  also  smiling,  unloosed  and 
unloosed. 

"  My  joy,  the  flower  in  her  bud  pleases  me  not: 
And  fruit  hanging  under  leaves  delights  me  not. 

"  My  sword  I  love  not  in  its  sheath,  it  is  no  pleasure 
To  see  the  stars  of  night  hidden  behind  clouds." 

From  the  Arabic.' 
52 


THE  MOST  VIRTUOUS  WOMAN. 

"Dluck  the  most  beautiful  apricot  from  this  tree 

And  place  it  on  silk  in  a  coffer  of  sandal-wood ; 
At  the  end  of  three  days  the  silk 
Will  be  stained  by  the  juice  of  the  fruit. 

Choose  the  most  virtuous  woman  from  this  world, 
Place  her  image  in  the  coffer  of  your  heart, 
Even  on  the  same  instant  your  heart 
Will  be  soiled  with  bad  thoughts. 

Popular  Song  of  Manchuria. 


53 


THE  MEETING. 

A   summer's  night  I  met  my  girl  on  the  path 

That  leads  straight  to  her  dwelling  and  straight  to  my        ' 
tent. 

We  were  alone,  we  two,  without  watchers  or  informers. 
Far  from  the  tribe,  far  from  jealous  eyes  and  spying  ears 

and  harming  tongues. 
I  laid  my  face  on  the  ground,  my  brow  a  footstool  for  my  girl. 
She  said:  "  Open  your  heart  with  joy,  we  are  without 

watchers; 
Come  press  your  lips  to  my  veil." 

But  my  lips  would  not  consent  to  it. 
I  felt  that  I  had  two  honours  to  guard. 
My  girl's  and  mine. 

And,  as  was  my  desire,  we  were  all  night  together, 
Near  to  each  other,  far  from  the  tribe  and  spying  eyes. 

And  it  seemed  that  I  was  master 

Of  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  world,  and  tliat  tlie  elements 

Obeyed  me  as  slaves. 

From  the  Arabic  of  Ibn-el-Fared  (1220  aj).) 
54 


THE  DRUNKEN  ROSE. 

TJTas  not  the  night  been  as  a  drunken  rose 

Without  a  witness?    And  the  girl  of  bloom 
Has  given  up  all.    What  little  cries  of  joy! 
What  wanton  words  repeated! 
But  white  dawn  shows  the  rose  and  green  pet  bird, 
The  mighty  talker  and  awake  all  night. 
Hark!    The  old  woman  comes;  he  will  tell  all. 
What  shall  she,  fluttering?    Snap  small  rubies  off 
From  the  bright  ear-rings,  facets  sharp  as  steel: 
These  with  the  seed-pulp  of  the  passion-fruit, 
His  sweet  prepared  breakfast,  mingle  featly  .  .  . 
So,  busy  jargoner,  silent  for  ever  more. 

From  the  Sanskrit  of  Amarou   (1st  Century). 


55 


THE  TRYST. 

Tn  thy  presence  my  arms,  my  hands,  my  lips,  all  my  being, 

•^   Tremble  as  tremble  the  leaves 

Of  the  cinnamon-apples  shaken  by  the  wind. 

— The  leaves  of  the  cinnamon-apple  do  not  tremble,  0  my         ' 

love. 
They  shiver  under  the  caress  of  the  wind 
Which  drinks  deep  of  their  perfumed  kisses. 

Come  with  me  to-night  under  the  cinnamon-apples 

And  like  their  leaves  you  will  shiver  under  my  caress, 

And  like  the  wind  I  will  drink  deep  of  your  perfumed  kisses. 

I  will  come.    But  what  will  you  give  me  for  my  kisses? 

— For  your  kisses  I  offer  you  my  kisses. 

What  will  you  give  me  for  my  heart? 

— For  your  heart  I  offer  you  my  heart. 

What  will  you  give  me  for  my  love? 

— For  your  love  I  offer  you  my  life. 

I  accept  your  kisses  and  your  heart  and  your  life ; 

And  I  give  in  exchange  myself  to  be  all  yours. 

And  all  trembling  this  night  I  will  come  to  offer  you  my  kisses 

Under  the  cinnamon-apples  caressed  by  the  wind 

And  in  the  wind  that  drinks  deep  of  their  perfumed  kisses. 

By  an  unknown  author  of  Camboja. 
56 


ZULMA. 

T  SEEMED  to  see  behind  a  half-opened  door 

Two  roses  on  a  rose-tree. 
I  was  mistaken. 
It  was  not  really  two  roses 
But  the  curved  cheeks  of  Zulma. 

I  seemed  to  see  behind  a  half-opened  door 

Two  white  lily  flowers. 

I  was  mistaken. 

It  was  not  really  two  white  lily  flowers 

But  the  curved  breasts  of  Zulma. 

I  seemed  to  see  behind  a  half-opened  door 

Two  red  blossoms  of  the  passion-flower. 

I  was  mistaken. 

It  was  not  really  two  red  blossoms  of  the  passion-flower 

But  the  curved  lips  of  Zulma. 

Women  or  flowers,  what  matter?    Tell  the  girl 

That  my  gardens  are  great  and  great  my  women's  quarters. 

There  grow  the  red  and  the  rose  and  the  white  flowers, 

And  the  light  women  and  the  dark  women,  with  skins  of  amber 

and  ivory. 
And  that  I  wish  to  pluck  the  rose  flowers  of  her  cheeks 
And  the  red  flowers  of  her  lips  and  the  white  flowers  of  her 

breasts. 

Street  Song  of  Baluchistan. 
57 


RUBAIYAT. 

'T^hey've  assured  me  that  Paradise  is  full  of  girls, 

They've  assured  me  that  I'll  find  wine  and  honey  in  Para- 
dise. 
Well  then,  why  forbid  me  wine  and  girls  down  here, 
Seeing  that  up  there  my  reward  will  be  girls  and  wine? 

From  the  Persian  of  Omar  Khayam  (10th  Century). 


PICTURE. 

T  SEE  the  snowy  winter  sky  through  the  old  arch; 

And  in  the  middle  the  line  of  one  tree. 
A  flight  of  crows  comes  just  above  the  tree, 
Sweeping  to  left  and  right,  and  tailing  out  behind. 
I  think  of  you. 

From  the  Japanese  (18th  Century). 


58 


I 


WHITE. 

THOUGHT  that  it  was  snowing 
Flowers.    But,  no.    It  was  this  young  lady 


Coming  towards  me. 


From  the  Japanese  of  Yori-Kito 
(19th  Century). 


SONG. 

T  CAME  upon  you  rolling  in  the  grass, 

Like  a  young  beast  you  rolled  over  and  over, 
Flinging  your  legs  wide, 
Flinging  your  arms  wide, 
And  rubbing  against  the  dew. 
I  came  upon  you  rolling  in  the  grass 
And  crept  away. 

From  the  Sanskrit  (5th  Century), 


59 


THE  RED  LOTUS. 

A   FLOWER  opens  down  under  the  deep  water  .  .  . 
the  deep  water. 

I  take  a  cord  and  throw  it  towards  the  flower 
whose  roots  are  so  far  down. 

Whose  roots  are  so  far  down. 

The  mystery  of  the  deep  darkness  is  troubled, 
the  repose  ceases,  the  ripple  spreads  very  far. 

With  my  cord  I  try  to  snare  the  lotus ;  as  if  his 
heart  were  deep  there  in  the  water. 

The  sun  floats  on  the  extreme  edge  of  the  sky, 

he  goes  down,  he  goes  out,  he  falls  into  the  night 
and  drowns. 

He  falls  into  the  night  and  drowns. 

I  climb  up  again  to  the  higher  storey;  I  stop 

in  front  of  my  mirror;  a  tragic  and  wasted  face! 

60 


THE   RED   LOTUS    6 

A  tragic  and  wasted  face! 

The  plants  are  setting  about  to  become  green  again, 
and  to  put  out  new  shoots. 

How  have  I  managed,  without  hope,  to  reach  this  day? 

From  the  Chinese  of  Ly-Y-Hane. 


61 


ENVOY. 

'T^HE  night  before  last  night 

I  heard  that  to  make  songs  to  girls 
And  to  make  prayers  to  God 
Were  of  equal  value 
In  the  eye  of  time; 
Provided,  that  is, 
That  the  prayers 
Are  sufficiently  beautiful. 


From  the  Burmese. 


62 


FOUR  NOTES. 

Black  Hair  (p.  13).  For  many  of  the  forty  years  of  his  life,  which  closed 
in  madness  in  1890,  Muhammadji,  the  greatest  poet  of  Afghanistan,  was  work- 
ing out  sentences  in  prison  for  violent  brawling  and  heavy  drinking.  In  the  last 
stanza  of  this  poem  the  folly  of  grandeurs  is  easily  detected;  and  in  fdl  his 
work,  mingled  with  that  drowsy  music  which  was  his  greatness,  is  a  vertigo 
from  over  the  depths  of  insanity. 

English  Girl  (p.  34).  This  poem,  which  could  only  have  been  thought  in  a 
Chinese  brain,  is  yet  in  form  very  wide  of  modern  Chinese  tradition.  Its 
author,  who  also  wrote  Song  (p.  26)  and  Being  Together  at  Night  (p.  29),  is 
an  American  born  Chinese,  a  valet  by  profession,  and  by  instinct  an  artist  both 
in  words  and  colours. 

Lover's  Jealousy  (p.  36).  Mirza  (Prince)  Rahchan  Kayil  was  the  pen- 
name  of  Hussein  Izzat  Rafi,  a  popular  contemporary  of  Muhammadji.  Being  a 
fine  linguist  and  tireless  traveller,  he  explored  the  wildest  parts  of  Asia  and  the 
most  ordinary  capitals  of  Europe,  searching  out  inspiration  for  a  mystical 
work  which  should  reconcile  all  religions.  At  the  age  of  48  he  was  hanged 
for  supposed  complicity  in  a  plot  against  the  Shah  of  Persia. 

Climbing  Up  to  You  (p.  41).  John  Duncan  died  in  his  middle  age  this 
year,  and  left  only  the  short-lived  memory  of  a  brilliant  talker  and  a  few 
strange  poems  in  the  language  of  his  adoption.  How  far  he  had  identified 
his  being  with  the  Arabs,  among  whom  he  lived  and  had  married,  may  be 
gathered  from  his  serious  use  of  the  expression  "A  tourist,  pure  and  simple," 
when  speaking  of  the  late  Sir  Richard  Burton.  This  poem  is  the  only  one  of 
his  which  seemed  to  be  generally  comprehensible  without  those  verbal  annota* 
tions  which  it  was  his  custom  sometimes  to  supply  when  reading. 


63 


PRINTED    BY    H.   O.    HOUGHTON    *    CO. 

CAMBRIDGE,    MASS, 

U.S.A. 


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